


It's So Hard

by unadulteratedstorycollector



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Erections, Falling In Love, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, H/D Sex Fair 2020, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry Potter is Obsessed with Draco Malfoy, Inappropriate Erections, M/M, Masturbation, Model Draco Malfoy, Nude Photos, Pining Harry Potter, Quidditch Player Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:01:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26524879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unadulteratedstorycollector/pseuds/unadulteratedstorycollector
Summary: Draco has posed for some interesting photos, and it is currently making things very... hard for Harry.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 42
Kudos: 1107
Collections: 2020 Harry/Draco Sex Fair





	It's So Hard

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt #[29](https://docs.google.com/document/d/12_5f6f0xUXhqtWfMlhXRyA8kDC3KGShN3oa_IOD12DY/edit#).
> 
> Thank you so much to my beta Frnkly, to the mods for running the fest, and to everyone for reading.

Draco Malfoy is naked in a magazine and it’s ruining Harry’s life.

It’s not just that he knows Draco is baring almost all in a popular wizarding magazine. It’s not just that all of their friends have a copy of said magazine. And it’s not just that it’s the only thing they want to talk about on a Friday night in the pub.

No, it’s that Harry hasn’t seen it.

“I think it’s really tastefully done,” Hermione says, her ears a little pink. Draco is lounging in his chair next to her, smirking. Harry used to hate that smirk, when it was directed to him. But after a year of Draco making heartfelt apologies, testifying against his father in front of the Wizengamot, and setting a newly single Ginny (mutual decision, as Harry has told many, many people) up with Blaise, the smirk softened, and Harry could recognise it as something else. A sort of awkward defence when Draco was feeling embarrassed. Five years later, and Harry’s starting to find it _endearing_.

“I think you should have shown us more,” Seamus shouts, and Dean rolls his eyes, slinging an arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders.

“If you want to see more, just ask him. Draco will whip it out for anyone.” Pansy laughs.

“Clearly! How much did they pay you for a naked shoot?” Neville asks. Harry knows it’s a joke, but he can’t help but see how uncomfortable Draco looks. He makes most of his money modelling, and donates half of it to his mental health charity, but it’s still something he doesn’t talk about. Draco picks up his glass of whiskey.

“More than I’m worth,” he mutters, and everyone rushes to assure him that’s not true. They’ve seen the pictures. They’ve read the accompanying interview. It was wonderful. He looks wonderful. He _is_ wonderful. Draco smirks. Harry downs his pint.

“Anyone want another?” he mumbles as he walks away, knowing he won’t be heard. Ron arrives at his elbow two steps later.

They get to the bar, moving through a large crowd, and Hannah Abbott waves at them. When she took over the Leaky Cauldron, Harry thought she was insane. A run down, dirty pub that no one went to? Except now it’s heaving, and light and airy, and there’s a chef that does amazing things with a roast on Sundays and Harry is glad they have somewhere to go where they don’t have to hide their magic. He doesn’t bother shouting his order at Hannah. She knows what it is.

“Have you seen it?” Ron asks Harry as they stand at the bar waiting for their drinks. Hannah is moving with a practised fluidity behind the bar. Harry watches her pouring their pints and resolutely ignores Ron. Ron knows he hasn’t seen it, and Harry is _very reasonably_ annoyed. Ron carries on, clearly pretending that Harry is involving himself in the conversation. “Ginny says Blaise has a copy in their bedroom.”

“Why would any of our friends have a copy?” Harry snaps.

Ron chuckles. “So, you haven’t seen it?” Harry scowls at him, not deigning to answer such a ridiculous question. Ron snorts. “Oh, you’re in for a treat.”

“It’s not a treat!” Harry half shouts, catching himself before he can be too loud. He looks behind him to make sure none of their friends heard. Draco is sat in the middle, laughing with Hermione, looking every bit the model he is in a tight black t-shirt. Objectively, Harry knows that Draco is hot. He’s a model. It is literally his job. But Harry has never thought of Draco in _that way_.

Well. Harry has never admitted to thinking about Draco that way.

He turns back to the bar as Hannah puts their pints down and takes their coins. “I’m not going to look at it,” he grumbles.

“Sure, you’re not.” Ron grins madly as Harry scowls harder.

“Why would I want to see a picture of Draco naked?”

“He’s holding a potions book in front of his actual dick.”

“Exactly!”

Ron looks at him triumphantly. And Harry wishes he hadn’t opened his mouth.

The truth is, Harry doesn’t want to see it. He doesn’t _want_ to think of Draco in that way, because he already spends too much time thinking about Draco in other ways. Like worrying about whether he’s sleeping enough, or caring about how awkward he feels around their friends, or wondering what Draco’s opinion on Harry’s new broom is. He doesn’t need to think about Draco naked.

Fuck knows he’s not good at moderation at the best of times. If he saw Draco basically naked, he’s worried what would happen.

“Do you still…?” Ron trails off at the end of the question. Four years ago, Harry made the terrible decision of confiding in his friend that he had a minor, _minor_ crush on Draco, and although Ron rarely brings it up, Harry knows that he knows. He doesn’t think Ron pities him, but that’s how it feels.

“Nah,” Harry lies. Of course he still has a minor, _MINOR_ , crush on Draco. Who wouldn’t? He’s witty and smart and dedicated. Those are very sexy qualities in a person, and it’s a good thing that Harry hasn’t thought about what Draco would look like naked, or how hot he is or else his crush might have developed into something a lot more, and that would be bad for everyone.

“Right. Because if you did, you would definitely want to see him naked.” Ron stares at him and Harry groans, banging his head on the bar.

Draco Malfoy is ruining his life.

*****

His life is moderately less ruined by Draco when he knocks on Harry’s door the next day. It’s Harry’s day off, and he was going to spend it cleaning his flat, but he’d much rather be spending time doing literally anything else.

“What are you doing?” Draco asks as Harry opens the door. Harry grins at him.

“Spending the day with you,” he replies. Draco smiles at him, a genuine smile that lights up his eyes and makes his shoulders relax.

“That’s what I was hoping you’d say.” He gestures behind him. “Fancy going for a walk?”

It’s a sunny day, warm and filled with summer lethargy, and Harry can’t think of anything he’d rather be doing. He nods, slipping into his Converse and grabbing his keys. Draco waits for him patiently, as he always does, arms behind his back. He looks good, Harry knows. His hair flops into one eye, short at the sides and long on top, emphasising his long neck. His clothes are cut specifically for him, and they fit tight to his body. He’s stunning.

Harry doesn’t like to dwell on it too much.

He shuts the door, locking it, and they walk down the street together, their feet tapping on the ground in unison. Draco is the same height as Harry, lean whereas Harry is lanky, and it’s pleasing that their steps are so similar. Harry doesn’t have to worry with Draco. The stark difference from when they were children doesn’t escape Harry’s notice.

They walk in silence in the direction of the park, along a route they take often. Harry enjoys these moments, walking in gentle silence with someone he feels he can be completely himself with. Sometimes they walk for hours in silence. Sometimes they talk about nothing. Sometimes Draco starts a serious conversation, like he truly is interested in Harry’s opinion.

Harry wonders what kind of day it will be today.

“I shouldn’t have taken those photos,” Draco says, and Harry has his answer.

“Why did you?” Harry asks. They walk for a few more steps as Draco formulates a reply.

“Have you seen them?” Draco asks instead.

“I haven’t.” A car drives past, and Harry glances over at Draco. His nose is so straight, his lips curling slightly at the corners, even when he’s relaxed and not smiling. Harry takes a deep breath. “Do you want me to?”

“Do you want me to want you to?”

Harry is getting confused with the circle of questions, but Draco is clearly not in the mood to answer any of them. Harry moves closer to him so that the backs of their hands brush together. His heart beats hard in his chest, and his breath is short. He loves these moments, when he’s so close to Draco it feels like they could be on the edge of doing something amazing.

The park is filled with children running around, dogs sniffing the ground and each other, people playing Muggle sports. It’s filled with life and movement, and Harry takes it in, feeling like he’s part of it. Just another person, enjoying the park on a summer’s day. Next to him, Draco takes a deep breath.

“I wouldn’t mind if you saw them, everyone else has,” he says. Harry nods. They start their first lap.

“Why did you take them?” Harry asks when they’ve walked past a group of elderly people moving slowly in unison. He doesn’t know why he needs to know. Draco does a lot of things as a model. He once did a photoshoot where he had to dive off a bridge and just trust that someone was going to cast a Levicorpus in time to stop him from smashing into the ground. Draco’s hand brushes against his.

“It sells more, and the magazine said they’d give twenty percent of their profit from the magazine to the charity,” Draco answers. Harry glances at him, watching as Draco worries his lip. Draco sighs. “I think I just needed someone to tell me I looked good. I’ve not been feeling… anyway.”

Harry’s chest tightens, something stirring in his stomach. “Well then, you definitely should have taken them,” he says. Draco looks at him, his grey eyes swirling with something, and he smiles softly.

“Thanks Harry,” he says, almost too quietly for Harry to hear. Harry nods, and they continue their walk in silence, hands bumping together and feet tapping in time.

*****

Hermione accosts him after training. He’s sweaty and gross, his hair plastered to his forehead and his Quidditch leathers starting to chafe. He really doesn’t want to be accosted, but there she is, standing by the entrance to the locker room, smiling at him knowingly. She greets Harry’s team-mates as they walk past her, and Harry narrows his eyes. She never just turns up to his practice without arranging it beforehand. Something is wrong.

He realises what it is a moment later, when he gets close enough to see that she has a magazine in her hand.

“What is that?” he demands. Hermione rolls her eyes.

“Don’t be dramatic. You’re taking me out for lunch,” Hermione replies. “Be quick.” Her tone doesn’t allow for disagreement, as it usually doesn’t, and so Harry grumbles as he pushes his way into the changing room. He contemplates not having a shower and just forcing Hermione to sit with him smelling like sweaty balls and old leather, but he feels so disgusting he quickly dismisses the idea. He has a quick shower and changes into a worn Weird Sisters t-shirt that was a hand-me-down from Charlie and a pair of shorts that are tight on his thighs. He waves goodbye to his team and heads out to see the more annoying of his best friends.

“Where are we going?” he asks Hermione as they march to the Apparition point. Harry wishes for a moment that Hermione wouldn't march everywhere. He aches from training, and he can’t concentrate on walking when he knows she’s carrying _the_ magazine.

“We’re going to that new Italian place on Diagon, and you are going to explain to me why you refuse to support your friend and buy the damn magazine,” Hermione huffs. They get to the Apparition point and she doesn’t wait for him to prepare before grabbing his hand and spinning them to Diagon Alley.

“I’m not _not_ supporting Draco. I can support him without looking at him naked,” Harry hisses, trying to regain his balance as they land. Hermione raises an eyebrow at him and stalks towards the restaurant. The waiter looks startled. Harry knows how he feels.

“Two please, somewhere quiet,” Hermione says, her hand still on his like a vice. They weave through tables, and Harry has just enough time to note how nice it is, big windows enchanted to show a Tuscan sunset, a big glass chandelier, cosy booths with thick red table clothes. He’d love to come here on a date. Or at least with someone who wasn’t frog-marching him everywhere.

“Hermione, can I have my hand back?” Harry asks. Hermione’s eyebrows shoot up, like she’d forgotten she was holding his hand, and drops it. They sit at the table, and the waiter drops their menus in front of them and quickly retreats. Harry wishes he could follow him.

“So. Explain.” Hermione picks up her menu, even though Harry knows her attention is on him. He copies her movement, not really looking at the menu. He’ll probably get spaghetti bolognese.

“There’s nothing to explain. I haven’t bought the magazine, so I haven’t seen the pictures. It’s as simple as that.” Harry hopes he sounds nonchalant, but he suspects he doesn’t from the way Hermione scowls at him.

“And you’ve no desire to read the interview?” She looks like a more terrifying McGonagall for a moment, and Harry wonders if he could get his dinner as a takeaway.

“Not really?” he says, although it sounds like a question. Hermione grunts, and looks back at her menu. There’s something wrong, and Harry can’t figure out what it is. He’s a little scared to ask. The waiter shuffles over, looking as petrified as Harry feels, and Harry gives him a reassuring smile. Harry gives his order, and Hermione barks hers, and the waiter scurries away. The look Hermione gives Harry makes him wish the waiter had stayed.

There’s an awkward silence and Harry waits it out, because after thirteen years, he’s used to it.

Finally, Hermione breaks. “Ron told me you had a reason for not wanting to look at it, but he wouldn’t tell me what,” she grumbles. Ah. Harry shifts in his seat.

“He’s a good friend,” Harry says to stall. He doesn’t want to tell Hermione about his crush that has definitely gone away. If he tells her it becomes more real, and he doesn’t want to deal with it. She’ll insist that it’s something they should talk about, or she’ll want to do some reading, or _worse_ she’ll want to talk to Draco, and he absolutely can’t have that.

“This isn’t fair, Harry! You can’t tell Ron something and expect him not to tell me; I’m his girlfriend! And I’m your best friend!” She sounds upset, and the guilt curls in Harry’s stomach, which he pushes to the side. He should have told her, probably when he told Ron, but he couldn’t. Sometimes Ron is just easier to talk to. And it’s up to him who he tells about his ridiculous romantic feelings.

“This isn’t fair either, Hermione. I’m allowed to talk to Ron,” he points out. Which is true.

Hermione sighs, slumping back into her chair. “I know. I just _hate_ not knowing.”

The food arrives and Harry lets Hermione stew for a moment as he digs into his pasta. It’s warm and comforting. Hermione finally sits up, taking her fork and stabbing at her penne. They eat without speaking, the clinking of their cutlery loud in Harry’s ear. He knows that Hermione will break first, because Hermione likes having the last word and she hates being wrong, and because he can see her thinking through an argument.

Finally, she puts her fork down.

“Why don’t you want to look at the pictures?” she asks. “I know that you’re going to say it’s just that you _haven’t_ seen them, but I know you, and I know you’re avoiding them. So why?”

Harry takes a mouthful of food and chews it, watching her. No point in giving in too easily. He swallows and takes a sip of water. When it’s clear Hermione is about to break, he leans back in his chair and clears his throat. “Because I have a very small crush on Draco, and I don’t think seeing pictures of him naked will help me get over it.”

Hermione’s mouth drops open. “Harry! Why didn’t you _say_? No! Nevermind. I won’t ask any more questions. Just…” She stops and reaches next to her where she’s put the magazine to the side. Harry tries to ignore the way his heart jumps at the thought of what’s in those pages. “I think you should have this.”

Harry nods, taking the magazine and putting it next to him. The rest of the meal passes in happy companionship. Harry doesn’t even think _once_ about what he might see on the pages next to him.

*****

Harry has spent all day thinking about Draco, and it’s starting to cause problems. In his pants. Serious problems.

He hadn’t looked at the magazine when he got back to his flat from dinner with Hermione the night before. He had tossed it on his kitchen table and pretended to ignore it for the rest of the evening as he watched a film and imagined himself being whisked away by the attractive male lead, who was not at all tall and blond, with chilling grey eyes.

He’d dreamt of grey eyes and blond hair all night.

Out of lateness, rather than stubbornness, he’d not looked at the magazine that morning either. He’d barely managed to grab his training leathers and a piece of toast as he’d rushed from his flat. He rarely regretted not living in a wizarding house, but that morning was one of those times.

Training had been hard, especially as everyone had been talking about the damn magazine. It seemed that the positive reviews about the interview and photo shoot had prompted their manager to contemplate getting a few of their star players to do a similar thing.

“Clearly they’ll have Potter,” Grace Barker, their beater, a prodigy just out of Hogwarts, had said to a room full of laughter. Harry had had a sinking feeling that he would definitely be involved.

The thought of being naked, of having the camera on him, was both terrifying and titillating. He’d ignored the titillating part.

Anyway, the point was that the whole day he’d been reminded of that stupid magazine sitting on his kitchen table with a smirking Draco naked on the pages.

It’s been a terrible day.

His cock is definitely interested, and definitely hard, by the time he gets home. He drops his kit bag by the front door and goes straight to the kitchen. His brain tries to remind him that this is a terrible idea, that he doesn’t need another reason to obsess about Draco, that wanking over your friend is a horrible, _horrible_ thing to do, but he can’t focus.

He opens the magazine with shaky hands. It’s a wizarding magazine, and there’s Draco, at least five pictures of him, leaning and moving and smiling. Pictures of him bent over a desk, sitting on a broom, behind a large white peacock. And the middle spread, a full two pages of him, laughing into the camera, one hand lazily holding a potions book—a large potions book—over his groin, the other running through his hair. His body is lean and defined, his neck a smooth column, that inviting V pointing to the book, his legs slender. He’s fucking gorgeous, and Harry’s cock twitches, his chest tight. Draco looks at the camera and winks.

Fuck it. Harry tugs his cock out of his shorts and pants, not bothering to shove them down, and starts to rub a hand over it in quick, tight bursts. There’s no finesse. He doesn’t bother to tease himself, just watches as the image of Draco moves, winking and smiling. He has a beautiful smile. There’s a trail of blond hair leading from his belly button down behind the book. Harry knows what it must lead to, and his imagination provides an image.

He comes over his kitchen floor in a rush, his body shaking and his eyes stuck on Draco’s. He gasps for breath and leans against his table, his cock going limp in his hand. There’s spunk on his floor, and the silence of the flat sends shivers down Harry’s spine. The magazine lies open in front of him. Draco is still laughing.

Harry tucks himself away, shame flooding him. He just wanked over his friend. In his kitchen. Like an animal. He feels exhausted, spent and sticky, and he knows he can never, _ever_ do that again. The fact that he did it once is awful. He takes his wand from where it fell onto the floor during his… a minute ago, and Scourgifies the floor, cleaning up the evidence of his terrible idea.

He takes the magazine with him as he heads to bed. He’s just full of terrible ideas.

*****

Harry is a disgusting human being. It’s been three weeks since Hermione gave him that accursed magazine, and he’s not sure there’s been a night he hasn’t had a wank over it. Even when he doesn’t actually look at the magazine, the only thing he can think about when he indulges in his nightly relief is Draco fucking Malfoy. Not even a random blond haired, grey eyed, stunningly handsome man. No. Very specifically Draco.

He can feel himself becoming infatuated. As if he wasn’t already.

He thinks a bit more about how he’s a disgusting human being as he walks towards the Ministry. They’re having a fundraiser, and he, Ron, and Hermione are expected to give a speech as ‘war heroes’. He is not looking forward to it. Hermione asked him if he wanted to get ready at hers, but he can’t look people in the face knowing that during his calm-down wank that morning images of Draco bent over in front of him, rounded arse smooth and pale, popped into his mind and led to the hardest orgasm he’d ever had.

He’s a disgusting human being.

He gets to the visitor entrance to the Ministry and slips on his robes, leaving them hanging open at the front. He can’t be bothered to do them up. He never did at school, why would he now? He steps into the phone booth, dials the number, and slowly descends. His stomach twists uncomfortably. He hates being so close to so many people, and he hates giving speeches. He’d much rather just send the money and spend an evening in the pub.

Hermione and Ron are waiting for him at the door to the events room. Ron is in smart black dress robes, also not done up, and Hermione is in delicate blue dress robes that are, their heads bend close together as they share a whispered joke. They look good together, happy and confident, and Harry realises he’d quite like something like that. An easy happiness. Or, no. Their happiness isn’t easy. It’s fire and passion, and a deep respect. Ron is the only one who can tease Hermione about her lack of cooking skills, and Hermione is the only one who can joke about being the more intelligent of the two of them.

It’s never made Harry feel left out before, but after three weeks of fantasising about a man he already had a huge crush on, it stings a little to see them.

“There you are!” Ron says as he gets closer to them. “You know, the sooner we get in, the sooner we can leave.”

“Ignore him; we can’t leave early.” Hermione rolls her eyes and starts to straighten Harry up, making his tie neater, and pushing his hair back in a vague attempt to make it behave. She never used to care about the way he looked before, so he scowls at her.

“Hermione, he looks fine. Let’s go,” Ron takes her hand and drags her away. She looks at him, and he shakes his head. A little conversation that Harry isn’t privy to.

They push the doors to the events room open and are greeted with soft classical music barely audible underneath the roar of conversation. The room is packed with witches and wizards drinking good elf wine and talking subtly about politics. The light is low, candles hovering around the room, and Harry can see house elves popping around with food and drinks. Harry hates it already.

“Can you see the others?” Hermione asks, too short to see over the crowd. Ron looks around before Harry can pretend that they aren’t there. It’s going to be awkward enough seeing Draco after wanking over him for a week, let alone having to make polite conversation before giving a speech. He’s nervous enough as it is.

“Over in the corner,” Ron says, and Harry could kick him.

They weave through the crowd, grabbing a drink off an elf wearing socks as gloves. Harry can feel his pulse in his fingertips as they get closer. Which is ridiculous because it’s just his friends. Dean and Seamus, Ginny and Blaise, Luna, Pansy. His friends. And Draco. Just his friend.

His friend who he has wanked over. Lots.

It’s just embarrassing, that’s all. Because he’s thought exclusively about Draco for nearly a month, and because the feelings he had for Draco are definitely becoming something more, and let’s face it, he’s never been great with people he’s liked. Memories of trying to ask Cho to the Yule Ball creep into his mind, and suddenly he’s standing in front of his friends with his cheeks on fire.

He greets his friends, avoiding looking at Draco and praying to some deity or other that he doesn’t look guilty. Not that he should _feel_ guilty. He hasn’t done anything wrong. Well, he hasn’t done anything illegal. He wonders for a moment whether wanking over your friend is illegal, and decides there would be no way to police it, even if it was. He can feel that his blush isn’t going away, and he is resolutely not looking at Draco.

“Are you okay Harry?” Luna asks, and then everyone is looking at him, which makes everything worse.

“I’m fine,” he mutters. Everyone eyes him suspiciously, but goes back to talking to Hermione and Ron about the speech. Harry takes a deep breath and turns to find Draco standing next to him, looking worried.

“You’re not fine,” Draco says, his voice low and deep. His eyes are so grey, looking deep into Harry like he is reading his soul, and something starts to stir.

Something in his pants.

No. Oh no. Harry shuffles on the spot, trying to will away the growing erection. Draco smiles at him, and Harry can just imagine it. In a minute he’ll wink, and Harry is going to come in his pants and then he’ll have to move to a different country.

“I am fine,” he says, his voice cracking. Draco raises one eyebrow, and it looks so much like that one picture of him where he’s leaning on a desk, his arse bare, looking over his shoulder sardonically. Harry’s cock twitches. He’s getting an erection from Draco raising an eyebrow, which is a habit that Draco has. It’s something he does often. If it’s going to give Harry an erection every time he does it, there’s going to be a problem.

“How are you feeling about the speech?” Draco asks, and Harry relaxes. Draco thinks he’s uncomfortable because of the speech. Which, to be fair, he is uncomfortable about. The erection is just adding to the discomfort.

“Oh,” he says, shrugging. “You know me.”

Draco looks at him, very seriously. “I do.”

Harry can’t breathe. He’s standing so close to Draco, close enough that he can feel the heat coming from Draco’s hand, hanging at his side. Close enough that he can appreciate the soft curve of Draco’s lips. Close enough that he could brush his erection against Draco, if he just angled his hips differently. Draco smiles softly at him, moving a fraction closer, and something in the air around them crackles. His erection isn’t going down.

“Harry, it’s nearly time,” Hermione says, bursting whatever bubble he’d been in. He coughs, and Draco’s hand comes to rest on his back, hot through the robes. Harry looks at him, wanting to say something, and wanting to run very, very far away.

“Good luck. I’ll be here,” Draco practically growls. A small, highly embarrassing noise escapes from the back of Harry’s throat and then Hermione’s hand is wrapping around his arm, dragging him towards the stage. Where he has to give a speech whilst sporting the hardest erection of his life.

Draco is going to kill him.

*****

He’s absolutely not going to do it again. It was reprehensible that he did it before, and it’s clearly going to cause a problem! Harry closes his eyes, willing himself to go to sleep and stubbornly ignoring his rapidly swelling cock. He is not going to wank over Draco Malfoy. Not again.

The problem with thinking about not wanking over Draco is that it very unhelpfully supplies his mind with the very images he doesn’t want to be wanking over, and his cock can’t help but respond. It apparently thinks that wanking over Draco is a fantastic idea. But Harry’s cock is not in charge of him, so he ignores his cock, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes clenched shut.

The magazine sits offensively next to his bed.

What he needs to do is think about something else. Anything else. Like… _literally_ anything else. He tries to think about Hermione, or homework, or training regimes, and instead he thinks about Draco laughing with him as they walk, Draco standing next to him, solid and supportive, Draco’s hand on his back. His cock throbs.

He could wank and not think about Draco. That wouldn’t be wrong. He could think of any of the guys he’s fucked in the past few years. He could just think about an arse, with no face attached. Just think about sliding into a hot, tight, hole.

He palms his cock through his pants, shivering at the sensation. Yes, that’s it. A nice rounded arse, a nice slippery hole. With no face. Nope. No face at all. He pulls his cock free and starts to tug in long slow movements, letting himself feel it in his toes. He closes his eyes tight, trying to focus on his hand, his cock, the pleasure spasming through him as he rubs.

A rounded arse. Pale. On a slender man. A slender blond man.

Harry’s balls tighten, and he knows he’s close.

The friction of being inside someone, a blond someone, with grey eyes and a smile that lights them up. A deep growl, delicate fingers. That V that points to a cock. Blond curls trailing down from belly button to cock.

Harry’s hand speeds up. He’s so close. There’s a rushing in his ears, a pounding in his head as his orgasm builds.

A laugh, pale skin. Grey eyes. Blond hair. Rounded arse, that smile as he lifts his hand to run it through his hair.

A wink.

Harry spends over himself with a shout, the orgasm tearing through him, blinding and intense. His balls ache with the force of it, his legs shaking and his eyes watering. His chest is covered in spunk, thick and hot, and he removes his hand slowly, sinking deeper into the bed as the realisation of what just happens floods him.

Well, fuck.

*****

“I think it’s broken,” Teddy says, looking down at his arm. It doesn’t look broken to Harry, but he is in no way a Healer, and Teddy is looking very very pale. They’re sitting in the emergency waiting room at St Mungos, the plastic chairs are uncomfortable and the light is harsh. Harry doesn’t like it here. Maybe if he’d been a better guardian he wouldn’t have to be here.

Harry had been teaching Teddy to fly, using a training broom, and then suddenly Teddy was on the ground and Harry felt sick. Teddy’s usually turquoise hair is a muddy brown, a sure sign he’s in pain. How did he fall off the broom? Harry is the worst godfather ever.

“I came as soon as I could,” Draco says as he jogs into the waiting room. His hair is flying into his eyes, his t-shirt is tight on his pecs, his legs long in black jeans. He looks worried and flushed, and Harry’s cock twitches in his pants. He groans internally. He’s worried sick about Teddy, and his cock still can’t behave itself. He is the worst human being in the world.

Teddy looks up, trying to smile as Draco comes to a stop in front of them. He crouches down, rubbing Teddy’s knee. Harry clenches his legs together, willing his growing erection away. This is _not_ the situation for an erection.

“You didn’t need to,” Harry mumbles. He’s glad that Draco did. Erection aside, it’s nice to have someone here with him.

“I know. But Andy called, and I didn’t want you to have to wait here on your own.” Draco glances at him, genuine concern in his eyes, and Harry wants to collapse into him, wants to let Draco take over. Wants to find support in those arms and eyes. Draco looks back to Teddy and smiles. “How you doing, terror?”

“It hurts,” Teddy says. Draco nods, moving to sit next to Teddy and putting an arm around him. Harry relaxes into the chair and watches Draco with Teddy. He loves seeing them together, the soft way Draco talks, the gentle ease of it. When they’re talking like this Harry can see the family resemblance. The straight nose. The pointed chin. The shrewd eyes. Draco’s gaze flicks to him again, and he gives a small, soft smile, before pulling Teddy onto his lap.

“You’re being really brave though, Ted. Braver than I was when I broke my arm,” Draco says.

“What did you do?” Teddy asks, a little colour returning to his cheeks.

“I wasn’t very nice to an animal and it got a bit cross.”

“You should be nice to animals!” Teddy sounds indignant and Harry chuckles, memories of a cocky, arrogant Draco flooding his mind. Memories of Draco shouting at him across the Great Hall, of gloating about his broom, of making ‘Potter Stinks’ badges. He helpfully chooses to forget the memories of Draco being an actual terrible person. Draco looks at him, grimacing, clearly remembering the same things.

“I know. You’d never do that, would you?” Draco turns back to Teddy. He’s rubbing Teddy’s back, soothing with touch as he always does. Harry feels sick. He couldn’t do that. He can’t soothe. He can just get his godson’s arm broken.

“Edward Lupin,” the Healer calls, and Teddy slips off Draco’s lap, wandering off with small, determined steps. Harry and Draco stand, walking close together. Harry can feel Draco’s hand brushing against his. His erection is still there, not fully hard, but definitely not as non-existent as it should be. There’s something wrong with him. He bites the inside of his cheek.

“So, what happened?” Draco asks quietly as they follow Teddy into the Healer’s room.

“I have no idea,” Harry replies, feeling shaky, his voice cracking. “I looked away for one second and he’s fallen off the broom. It’s only a test broom! It flies three feet off the ground. I don’t know what happened…” he trails off. Draco’s hand is on his back, rubbing small circles, soothing him. It doesn’t help the situation in Harry’s pants.

“It’s not your fault. It could have happened to anyone.” Draco’s voice goes to Harry’s cock via his heart. He wants to rearrange himself, but he also doesn’t want to call attention to the semi.

The mood shifts as they wander into the examination room and stand to the side as the Healer talks to Teddy, feeling his arm, sending diagnostic spells towards him. He looks so small, and so hurt, and Harry wants to cry. He did this. He hurt his baby. He feels cold, shivery. Draco is standing so close, and Harry can only focus on Teddy, as he should.

“Am I a terrible godfather?” Harry asks, his voice small. Draco’s hand is so warm on his back, and he feels so comforted and safe.

“You’re a wonderful godfather. It was an accident,” Draco whispers back, his mouth close to Harry’s ear. Harry nods, leaning into Draco and letting himself relax in the sureness of Draco’s competence.

On the plus side, his erection is gone. On the minus, he’s pretty sure his crush has grown.

*****

It’s getting ridiculous. Harry tightens his legs around his broom and hopes that no one will notice that he looks uncomfortable. His cock swells in his Quidditch leathers. He is at _work_. He is flying _very high in the sky_. He caught a glimpse of Draco cheering him on for _three fucking seconds_! He should not have an erection from three seconds.

It’s not a voluntary reaction, he’s aware. He has trained his cock to swell at the sight of Draco, because he’s been wanking over Draco’s picture, and exclusively Draco’s picture.

“Harry!” Draco’s voice cuts through the roar of the crowd, shocking Harry from his thoughts. He looks at Draco, hair shining gold in the sun, eyes bright, cheeks flushed like he’s just been running. Or fucking. Draco is pointing wildly to his left. Harry turns to see the Snitch hovering near him. He moves without thinking, arm stretched out, chasing the golden ball. This is something he can do, something that is voluntary. Something under his control.

He’ll catch the snitch, win the game, and deal with the erection thing later.

*****

Ron finds him hiding in his flat. Not hiding. That’s the wrong word. Camped out. He’s camped out in his flat like a hermit. It’s the only option he has, because he can’t see Draco, and apparently the fucking man is everywhere. He plans on going full Gatsby, except without the lavish parties.

He has, instead of the parties, not cooked for himself in a week or bothered to clean up the takeaway containers. He’s been watching repeats of old TV programmes, when he’s not at training, and he can’t remember the last time he cleaned the flat or his training leathers. They’re sitting at the end of the sofa in the open kit bag emitting an interesting smell that Harry hopes he’s usually flying too high for anyone else to notice.

“What are you doing?” Ron asks as he walks into the flat. Harry shouldn’t have given him the spare key. Ron looks around the room, letting out a slow, long whistle. “Bloody hell, mate. You’re not handling this well.”

“I am handling this fine,” Harry says indignantly. He pauses as his brain catches up with the words. “Wait, what am I handling?”

“Being in love,” Ron replies like it’s obvious. It isn’t obvious to Harry, and he’s not entirely sure what Ron is talking about. He isn’t in love! Ron sighs, flopping onto the sofa with Harry. “Mind you, when I was in love I made out with another woman and then left you in a forest, so I’m not sure I can judge.”

He’s talking about Hermione. Harry can follow that much. But who the fuck is he supposed to be in love with? He hasn’t been in love with anyone since… well, he’s not sure if he ever has, if he’s being honest with himself. He’d know if he were in love, and he isn’t. Definitely not.

“Who am I in love with?” he asks, just in case. Ron looks at him like he’s insane.

“Draco, you bellend.”

Harry stares at Ron, not sure he heard right.

Draco.

He’s in love with Draco? Draco Malfoy? He’s in love? With Draco? He’s in love with Draco?

Shit.

“Right,” he says, the truth of it hitting him in his solar plexus. He breathes, shakily, and tries to fit this new information into what he already knows about himself. He’s in love with Draco. And he’s been wanking over pictures of Draco for well over a month. He’s been wanking, and now he’s in love with Draco. Wanking made him fall in love.

“I’ve been wanking,” he says to Ron, in a vague attempt to make himself feel better. Surely Ron will know what to do.

Ron’s eyes get wide and he frowns. “Okay? Good to know?”

Harry shakes his head. Ron doesn’t understand. He needs Ron to understand. “No, I’ve been wanking over those pictures of him.”

“Again, thanks?”

“And now I’m in love with him?”

“I think you’ve been in love with him for a while, mate.” Ron’s lips curve into a wry smile and Harry leans forward, needing some blood in his brain. He has no idea what to do. He’s shit at this love stuff. Ron is much better; he has Hermione and he hasn’t fucked up his relationship with her. Harry’s in love with one of his friends, and he has absolutely no clue what to do next. He doesn’t even know if Draco likes him back!

“What am I going to do?” he asks the room, hoping that Ron will see his panic and help him.

“Cast an Expelliarmus and hope he goes away?” Ron jokes, clearly not in the mood to help Harry at all.

“Ron!” Harry sits up, glaring at his best friend. Ron is the planner. Ron is the strategist. Ron is the one who makes it all make sense. Everyone knows that. Ron looks at him for a long moment, clearly enjoying the anguish that Harry is in. Harry is about to say something suitably snarky when Ron sighs.

“I don’t know, mate. Talk to him?” he says. Right. What a sensible idea. Except!

“How can I talk to him when I’ve been wanking over his picture for weeks?” Harry asks, entirely reasonably in his opinion. He slouches back on his sofa. His beard is itchy, there are flies buzzing around, and he knows that he’s basically living in squalor, but he can’t find the energy to do anything about it, not when all his energy has been spent on training and thinking about Draco. How did he not see he was in love? He’s an idiot.

Even if he did talk to Draco, what would he say? Draco should be with someone classy and grownup, not the overgrown child that is Harry. He looks at Ron, ready to say this, and stops. Ron is staring at him, unblinking, clearly working something out.

“Have you read the interview? Or just jacked off to him winking?” he finally asks. Harry feels heat rise in his neck and cheeks and ears.

“Um…”

“I think you should read the article.” Ron looks around the room, his nose wrinkling. “After you get a shower. You bloody stink.”

*****

It’s Dean’s art show, and everyone is going to support him, unless they want a beating from Seamus. Harry would have gone without the threat of a beating, but he appreciates Seamus being overprotective of his boyfriend. He’d like to be protective of someone, someday. As long as that someone is Draco.

He walks into the gallery, taking in his surroundings. Portraits hang around the room, thick brush strokes of oils and detailed watercolours. Pastels and sketches and even a portrait of Seamus asleep done in embroidery. Dean is really very talented, and Harry lets himself marvel at it for a moment. The room is lit with soft candle light, and there are trays of champagne floating around. A Muggle band that Harry vaguely recognises is playing over the speakers. It all feels like a wonderful blend of magic and Muggle and Harry is overwhelmed by it.

“It’ll be okay, mate,” Ron says, following close. Harry nods. Ron has been gently supportive, but also made sure that Harry showered and threw out all the takeaway containers and sent his training leathers for an elf clean. It’s like having Molly there, except that Ron is very willing to hit him if he tries to slip back into his recluse ways.

“How can you be sure?” Harry asks.

“Don’t be damp, Harry.” Ron laughs, pushing Harry into the room. He’s right, Harry knows. He defeated Voldemort. He faced death. He needs to get a grip. He gives himself a shake and grabs a glass of champagne. Ron claps him on the back, hard, and Hermione comes to stand between them, linking her arms with theirs.

“We should all buy something,” she says. “Use our ridiculous fame for some good.”

They wander around the room looking at the paintings. Dean has painted them all. There’re sketches of them talking and laughing, of Seamus sleeping and eating and talking. Big paintings of Dean’s parents and grandparents. A delicate watercolour of Hermione, looking proud and strong. A vibrant oil painting of Luna grinning. They’re stunning.

They stop in front of a collection of charcoal sketches. Harry can't take his eyes off the movement of the lines, the thick black strokes, the white chalk against brown paper. The biggest, sat in the middle, is a captured moment of Draco and Harry. Draco’s face is turned towards Harry, his jaw sharp, his mouth tilted up in a secret smile, his eyes light as he looks at Harry. Harry isn’t looking at him; he’s laughing at something beyond the paper.

“Remind me to never trust myself around Dean again. He sees too much,” Draco says, appearing at Harry’s side. Harry steels himself and turns, expecting his cock to harden, and finding his chest tightening instead.

Draco looks stunning. Harry knows Draco is stunning, because he always is. Because no matter what he wears, in this case a sharply cut black suit, it looks like it was made just to flatter him. Because there’s something in his eyes that glows when he looks at Harry. Once upon a time Harry used to ignore how stunning he was because it was hard enough thinking he was amazing without thinking he was hot and amazing. But now Draco’s beauty hits Harry and he can’t breathe.

Fuck, Ron was right. Harry is in love.

“Are you going to buy it?” Draco asks. His voice goes through Harry, and the erection that Harry was expecting starts to grow. Harry groans. He can’t have a hard on, and be in love, _and_ be expected to hold a conversation with Draco whilst pretending none of that is true.

“Dean is so talented,” Harry says in an attempt to sound normal.

“He is,” Draco agrees. He steps forward with his wand, tapping next to the charcoal sketch. A scroll appears next to it, the script reading ‘Sold’. Harry feels dizzy. Draco has bought the drawing of them, of Draco looking at Harry like _that_. Why is Draco looking at Harry like that? What does it _mean_?

Draco smiles at him, standing close, his eyes dark and his lips pink. Harry can’t be here. His cock is painfully hard, his heart is painfully beating, and his head is painfully sluggish. He needs to leave. He’ll buy something later. Or he’ll buy the first thing he sees now. Other than the portrait of him and Draco. Draco already bought that.

Harry feels sick.

He takes a step back, muttering words that even _he_ can’t make out, and leaves.

*****

Harry walks into his flat, heading straight for his bedroom. He opens the magazine that’s lying conspicuously next to his bed. Read the interview. That’s what Ron had told him to do. He’s not read the interview before, just wanked over the images of Draco naked.

He flips the page open, ignoring the pictures and starts reading. It’s a very standard interview. They talk about Draco’s mum, his modelling career, his charity. Harry knows it all, has spoken to Draco at length about it. Has been there to see most of it. He has no idea what Ron could have been talking about.

And then he gets to the end of the interview, and something he has carefully avoided talking to Draco about.

**Q: And is there anyone special in your life?  
DM: Ha, if there was, he wouldn’t know about it.  
Q: So, there is?  
DM: It’s hard to not love someone when they pull you from the fire.**

It takes Harry a couple of reads to really understand. Draco loves someone. Someone who pulled in from the fire. It could be a metaphor. He could mean someone who helped Draco when he was first struggling after the war. But Harry knows, in his bones, that it isn’t metaphorical. If there had been someone else, Harry would have known. There isn’t anyone else. It’s him.

He dragged Draco from the fire, Draco pressed against his back, Draco’s breath hot on his neck.

Draco must have known what he was doing when he said that. He must have known that Hermione or Ron, or even Harry would read it and know what it meant. That Draco loves him. That Harry saved him, and he saved Harry, and their lives that have been so intertwined for years may join together. The knowledge takes Harry’s breath away and he stares at the words as they swim in front of him. He feels light.

A knock on his front door startles him, and he doesn’t put the magazine down as he opens it.

Draco is standing in his doorway, eyes bright, concern lining his forehead. He leans against the frame with both hands, his body taking up the space.

“You ran away?” he says, and Harry doesn’t know how to respond.

“I didn’t… I… uh…” He did run away. And Draco followed him. And he pulled Draco from the fire. Draco drops his hands, stalking into the flat and shutting the door behind him with a foot.

“Harry. You ran.” His voice is low, gravelly, sending shivers down Harry’s spine. Harry’s hand tightens on the magazine, and Draco gets closer, crowding Harry against the wall. Harry can feel his pulse in his ears, his cock straining against his jeans, his breath hard.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. Draco is so close to him that Harry can see the tiny flecks of blue in his grey eyes. Can smell the tang of champagne on his breath. Can feel Draco thighs, firm against his.

“Why?” Draco asks. Harry doesn’t have an answer that makes sense anymore. Draco's eyes flick down to the magazine still in Harry’s hand. He smirks, his eyes darkening. “You’re reading my interview?”

“Yeah. I hadn’t before. I… I thought I should.” Harry’s voice is breathy and Draco moves closer. Harry’s erection is pressing against Draco’s hip. He must be able to feel it.

“So. You’ve read it.” It isn’t a question. Harry can feel Draco’s breath on his lips.

“Yes.”

“All of it?” Draco asks, and Harry drops the magazine on the floor. He brings his hands to Draco’s hips, angling his so he can feel Draco’s cock, hard against him.

He moans, his lips ghosting Draco’s. “The important bit, I think.”

Draco’s mouth presses against his, soft and insistent, and Harry leans into it. Their bodies rock together, Harry’s arms slipping around Draco’s waist, pulling him closer as Draco’s mouth opens. Their tongues twine together, and Draco starts to move them down the corridor towards Harry’s bedroom.

“Do we need to talk?” Harry asks, pulling his clothes off, following Draco’s lead. Draco's suit jacket, shirt, tie, socks litter the floor, and Harry’s t-shirt and jeans join them.

“Now?” Draco drops his trousers, his dick straining against his pants. Harry’s mouth waters.

“You love me.” Harry strips his pants off, standing naked in his bedroom with the man he loves, the man he’s been wanking over for weeks, staring at him. His cock is leaking, his body too full of adrenaline to concentrate.

“I do,” Draco agrees, stepping out of his pants and pressing his naked body against Harry’s.

“I love you,” Harry says, kissing Draco’s neck, licking and nipping at the pale, smooth skin.

“Excellent. Want to fuck me?”

Harry’s cock twitches. He does. He wants to fuck Draco more than he’s ever wanted anything. Draco grins, winking once, and Harry growls, grabbing at Draco, lips crashing against his, hands in Draco’s hair, on his back, cupping his arse. Draco wraps one long leg around Harry’s hips, grinding his cock against Harry’s.

They move together, lying down on the bed, Draco on his back, writhing as Harry prepares him. He’s whispering and moaning, and Harry can catch every other word. ‘Love’, ‘need’, ‘want’. Harry agrees, licking Draco’s chest, running a tongue over Draco’s hardened nipples, revelling in how responsive Draco is.

And then Harry is sliding into his heat, their bodies closer than Harry could ever have dreamed. They rock together, their mouths connected, and Harry doesn’t think he’ll last long. Next time. There will be a next time, and next time Harry will spend hours worshipping Draco’s body. Learning every centimetre of it. But right now he drives into Draco, urged on by the way Draco moves, the sounds he makes.

“Harry, I’m close,” Draco pants against Harry’s mouth and Harry nods. He slides his hand between them, taking Draco’s cock in his hand and rubbing his hand in time to his thrusts. His brain is filled with Draco, his body tight, his balls aching, and then he feels Draco tense beneath him, as he comes. His hole clenches around Harry’s cock, sending him over the edge and ripping his orgasm from him.

He collapses against Draco, his hand sticky and bent in an awkward position, Draco’s hair tickling his nose. Draco gives him a shove and he slips from Draco with a wince and flops onto the bed. He’s exhausted, his body sore and tight.

“Do you have your wand?” Draco asks. He sounds tired.

“It’s in my pocket. On the floor,” Harry replies. He’s also tired. Draco groans but gets up to grab one of their wands. He waves it, muttering a spell, and cleans them both off, before getting back into bed. Harry holds an arm out, and Draco curls into him. Harry sighs, contentedly, and feels Draco go heavy against him.

They should probably talk. Maybe define what their relationship is, or will be. But Harry doesn’t feel the need, because they are what they’ve always been, and what they always will be. Linked and together and dependent on each other in a way that makes this seem inevitable.

“I’m really glad you took those photos,” he whispers. Draco smiles, pressing a soft kiss to Harry’s neck and snuggling in closer. Harry feels deliriously happy.

Draco Malfoy is naked in his bed, and it’s significantly improving his life.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please support the author by clicking on the kudos button and leaving a comment below! ♥


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